Tlie  wdrliing  class  and  the  employing  class  have  nothing 


;fc;;coha'mon  ■ There  can  he  no,  peace  so  long  as  '-hunger  ..ana 
vwn.nt^ are- inillions  of  working  peopl-e,.  and  the 
'ff  e%;  :‘WhO’  employing  class,  have- all  the  goo# 

-Of  ' lifei. ■  '  ■■  ■ 


,  -130^00%  these/t  classes  a  struggle  must  go  on  until 
,  the  workOrs..^,;o^^^  world  organize  as  a  class,  take  posses-  - 
.  Edok,  Of  The  \ea,rth  and  the  machinery,  of.  production  and 
'  :ahoiiS.h  the  "  wage  - sy^  _  .  ; 

^  ,  Wk^nd  that  the  centering  of  the  management  of  indus- 
:;’tries.ipto  fewer  and  fewer  hands  makes  the  trades,  unions 
^mhahle  'to  wpe^^  the  ever-growing  power  of  the  employ- 
,Oihg.;<kasev  ' '^he  trade  unions  foster  a  state  of  affairs  which 
:One  •  set: .  p  workers  to  he  pitted  against  another  set 
of ‘  3%r.hefS:;  in  .■’the  same  industry,  thereby,  helping  defeat 
jphe.  Supthei;  ..in  3vage  wars.- -  Moreover,  the  trade  unions 
; :  aifi;  class  to  '  mislead  the  worker!  into 

'th  working  class  has  interests  in  common 

;'k^|fh-:  thOir;’Omplp;^ers^^  -  ■ 

can  he  changed  and .  the- interest  of 
■'f  tW'Workih'g.  class  upheld  onlj'  by  an  organizatibn  formed 
k  rh^:,■Slmh;a,v^^^^  alljts  members  m  any  one  industry,  or 

^>iip  .,^'kn^strtes,  ifi'hecessary,  cease,  ivbrk  whenever  a 
;:tst!rl^:^nbchpiit  is  on,  in  any  department  thereof,  thus- 
injury  to  one  an‘:ihjury  to:  all.  ‘  •  , 

-.  h  ,  .  Instead'-  of  .  the  obnserva  tive  mottoj  “A  fair  day’s  wages 
1  fbh^  must  inscribe’  on  our  banner 

V  .ilmVtekb.lutionary  watchword,  “Abolition  of  the  wage  sys- 

-k  v'-y 

■  is'ithe.''histofic- miss  of  the  working  class  to”  do 

•kWay,  wip^’Gapi  The  array  of  production  must  l^^ 

cr^ak'1^^1  the  everyday  struggle  with  captr 

'vta\lktek4^Utoals.o.;:  carry  on  production ,  when  capitalism 

■' pverthr  By  organizing  industrially 

■> -W''e:  -AkeVfkt'mingv the  structure  of  the  new  society  within 
the 


•p- 

•  a-'-'  •-'•‘/v.I 


Songs  of  the  Workers 

BUBLISHED  BY 

Seattle  Locals  of  the  L  W.  W. 


NEARER  MY  JOB  TO  THEE. 

Words  by  J.  H.  of  the  I.  W.  W. 

Nearer  my  job  to  thee, 

Nearer  with  glee, 

Three  plunks  for  the  office  fee, 
But  my  fare  is  free. 

My  train  is  running  fast. 

I’ve  got  a  job  at  last. 

Nearer  my  job  to  thee 
Nearer  to  thee. 

Arrived  where  my  job  should  be. 
Nothing  in  sight  I  see. 

Nothing  but  sand,  by  gee. 

Job  went  up  a  tree. 

No  place  to  eat  or  sleep. 

Snakes  in  the  sage  brush  creep. 
Nero  a  saint  would  be. 

Shark,  compared  to  thee. 

Nearer  to  town!  each  day 
(Hiked  all  the  way), 

Nearer  that  agency. 

Where  I  paid  my  fee. 

And  when  that  shark  I  see  ; 
You’ll  bet  your  boots  that  he  , 
Nearer  his  god  shall  be. 

Leave  that  to  me. 


1 


r 


INDEX 


Page 


Nearer  My  Job  to  Thee .  1 

Master,  Beware!  . 3 

In  the  Cold  Old  Winter  Time... .  4 

Casey  Jones  . 5 

The  Red  Flag  . : .  6 

The  International  . . . . . . . .  7 

The  Banner  of  Labor .  8 

Should  I  Ever  Be  a  Soldier  ... .  9 

The  Marseillaise  .  10 

Hark!  The  Battle  Cry  Is  Ringing .  11 

A  Song  for  the  Wage  Slaves . . .  12 

What  We  Want .  13 

The  Roll  Call  . . . . . .  14 

My  Wandering  Boy  . 15 

Coffee  And  .  16 

The  Hope  of  the  Ages .  17 

Down  in  the  Old,  Dark  Mill .  18 

Workingmen  Unite  .  19 

That  Old  Red  Button .  20 

Scissor  Bill  .  21 

Mr.  Block . . 22 

Stand  Up,  Ye  Workers .  23 

They  Are  All  Fighters . 24 

Wage  Workers,  Come  Join  the  Union .  25 

A  Dream  . .  26 

Stung  Right  . 27 

The  Bone  Head  Working  Man . . .  28 

The  Old  Toilers’  Message . . . . .  28 

Oh,  Working  Men  . 29 

The  Preacher  and  the  Slave .  30 

There  Is  Power  in  a  Union . . . . .  31 

A  Parody  on  J.  D . . . . . .  32 

'Song  of  the  “Scissorbill” . . .  32 

Walking  on  the  Grass . 33 

It  is  the  Union . . . . .  34  m 

The  Girl  Question . 35 


9 


Page 

The  White  Slave  . - .  36 

Everybody’s  Joining  It  . 37 

We  Are  the  Only  Union  .  38 

We  Will  Sing  One  Song .  39 

Workers  of  the  World,  Unite .  40 

Ship  Out  .  41 

The  Blanket  Stiff .  41 

Out  in  the  Bread  Line .  42 

Where  the  Fraser  River  Flows .  43 

Might  Is  Right .  44 

Unite!  Unite!  .  45 

The  Tramp  .  46 

Come  and  Get  Wise .  47 

Hold  the  Fort  .  48 


MASTERS  BEWARE. 

Tune:  “Down  in  the  Deep.) 

Over  the  hills  with  their  blankets  they  go 
Into  the  woods  and  the  mines  down  below, 

Blazing  the  trails,  laying  the  rails, 

Piercing  the  mountains,  onward  they  go 

Chorus : 

Masters  Beware.  Masters  take  care. 

The  wage  slaves  are  joining  this  one  union  grand. 

So  Beware!  Beware!  the  wage  slaves  are  joining 
this  one  union  grand, 

So  Beware!  Beware! 

He  sails  over  the  seas  to  far  distant  lands, 

Piling  up  wealth  on  every  hand. 

Building  great  castles  and  mansions  so  grand. 

Yet  robbed  of  his  Avealth  by  an  exploiting  band. 

Yet  locks,  bolts  and  bars  do  not  prisons  make 
When  man  he  strikes  for  freedom’s  sake. 

The  industrial  union  bids  ye  slaves  arise 

And  the  earth  Avill  be  yours  if  you’ll  only  get  Avise. 


r 


IN  THE  COLD  OLD  WINTER  TIME. 

There  is  a  time  in  each  year  that  the  working  class  fear. 

It’s  the  cold  old  winter  time 

When  the  cold,  chilly  breeze  makes  them  shiver  and  freeze 
In  the  cold,  old  winter  time. 

They  work  all  summer  long  for  a  system  that’s  wrong 
And  for  masters  that  treat  them  like  swine. 

Then  they  come  to  the  city.  They’re  objects  of  pity 
In  the  cold  old  winter  time. 

Chorus:  ' 

In  the  cold  old  winter  time, 

In  the  cold  old  winter  time. 

They  feed  you  on  religion  and  soup  kitchens  and  bread 
lines 

Salvationists  and  volunteers  and  rollers  all  live  fine. 

You’re  the  only  one  that’s  on  the  bum 
In  the  cold  old  winter  time. 

They  work  you  like  mules  and  treat  you  like  fools 
Tn  the  cold  old  winter  time. 
tWith  Jim,  Jack  and  Bill  shovelling  snow  for  Jim  Hill 

In  the  cold  old  winter  time.  * 

You  ripen  the  melons  for  others  to  eat 
And  all  you  receive  is  the  rind. 

Why  don’t  you  get  wise,  with  the  boys  organize 
In  the  cold  old  winter  time. 

There’s  a  time  near  at  hand  when  throughout  this  broad'— 
land 

In  the  cold  old  winter  time 

There  will  he  no  more  bums;  there  will  be  no  more  slums 
!  In  the  cold  old  winter  time.  or>/n, 

:  We  will  tear  down  this  system  that  capital  built 

And  the  heights  of  ambition  we’ll  climb.  VcU 

Shorter  hours  and  better  pay  is  our  motto  today 
In  the  cold  old  winter  time. 

In  the  cold  old  winter  time  ^  ^ 

With  the  workers  all  in  line 
We’ll  make  the  drones  and  lazy  bones  and  bosses  come 
to  time. 

When  capital  is  down  and  out,  then  labor’s  sun  will  shine  * 
And  the  boss  will  work  or  starve  to  death 
In  the  cold  old  winter  time. 


CASEY  JONES— THE  UNION  SCAB. 

(By  J.  Hill.) 

The  Workers  on  the  S.  P.  line  to  strike  sent  out  a  call; 
But  Casey  Jones,  the  engineer,  he  wouldn’t  strike  at  all; 
His  boiler  it  was  leaking,  and  its  drivers  on  the  bum, 

And  his  engine  and  its  bearings,  they  were  all  out  of  plumb. 

Chorus. 

Casey  Jones  kept  his  junk  pile  running; 

Casey  Jones  was  working  double  time; 

Casey  Jones  got  a  wooden  medal. 

For  beipg  good  and  faithful  on  the  S.  P.  line. 

The  Workers  said  to  Casey:  “Won’t  you  help  us  win  this 
strike?” 

But  Casey  said:  “Let  me  alone,  you’d  better  take  a  hike.” 
Then  some  one  put  a  bunch  of  railroad  ties  across  the 
track. 

And  Casey  hit  the  river  with  an  awful  crack. 

Casey  Jones  hit  the  river  bottom; 

Casey  Jones  broke  his  blooming  spine; 

Casey  Jones  was  an  Angeleno, 

He  took  a  trip  to  heaven  on  the  S.  P.  line. 

When  Casey  Jones  got  up  to  heaven,  to  the  Pearly  Gate, 

He  said:  “I’m  Casey  Jones,  the  guy  that  pulled  the  S.  P. 
freight.’' 

“You’re  just  the  man,”  said  Peter;  “our  musicians  went 
on  strike; 

You  can  get  a  job  a’scabbing  any  time  you  like.” 

Casey  Jones  got  a  job  in  heaven; 

Casey  Jones  was  doing  mighty  fine; 

Casey  Jones  went  scabbing  on  the  angels, 

Just  like  he  did  to  workers  on  the  S.  P.  line. 

The  angels  got  together,  and  they  said  it  wasn’t  fair. 

For  Casey  Jones  to  go  around  a’scabbing  everywhere. 

The  Angels’  Union  No.  23,  they  sure  were  there. 

And  they  promptly  fired  Casey  dov/n  the  Golden  Stair. 

Casey  Jones  went  to  Hell  a’flying. 

“Casey  Jones,”  the  Devil  said,  “Oh  fine; 

Casey  Jones  get  busy  shoveling  sulphur; 

That’s  what  you  get  for  scabbing  on  the  S.  P.  line.” 


r 


THE  RED  FLAG. 

(By  James  Connell.) 


The  Workers’  flag  is  deepest  red. 

It  shrouded  oft  our  martyred  dead; 

And  ere  their  limbs  grew  stiff  and  cold 
Their  life-blood  dyed  its  every  fold. 


Chorus. 

Then  raise  the  scarlet  standard  high 
Beneath  its  folds,  we’ll  live  and  die. 

Though  cowards  flinch  and  traitors  sneer, 
We’ll  keep  the  red  flag  flying  here. 

Look  ’round!  the  Frenchman  loves  its  blaze. 
The  sturdy  German  chants  its  praise; 

In  Moscow’s  vaults,  its  hymns  are  sung, 


Chicago  swells  its  surging  song.  ♦ 

o 

It  waves  above  our  infant  might 

When  all  ahead  seemed  dark  as  night;  j(  -oi 

It  witnessed  many  a  deed  and  vow, 

We  will  not  change  its  color  now. 


It  suits  today,  the  meek  and  base 
Whose  minds  are  fixed  on  pelf  and  place; 

To  cringe  beneath  the  rich  man’s  frown. 

And  haul  that  sacred  emblem  down. 

With  heads  uncovered,  swear  we  all. 

To  bear  it  onward  till  we  fall; 

Come  dungeons  dark,  or  gallows  grim. 

This  song  shall  be  our  parting  hymn! 

“The  poor — is  any  country  his?  What  are  to  me  youi 
glories  and  your  industries — they  are  not  mine.” 


ni 

ov 


6 


THE  INTERNATIONALE. 

(Translated  by  Charles  H.  Kerr.) 

(By  Eugene  Pettier.) 

Arise,  ye  prisoners  of  starvation! 

Arise,  ye  wretched  of  the  earth, 

For  justice  thunders  condemnation, 

A  better  world’s  in  birth. 

No  more  tradition’s  chains  shall  bind  us, 
Arise,  ye  slaves;  no  more  in  thrall! 

The  earth  shall  rise  on  new  foundations. 

We  have  been  naught,  we  shall  be  all- 

Refrain : 

’Tis  the  final  conflict. 

Let  each  stand  in  his  place. 

The  Industrial  Union 

Shall  be  the  human  race. 

We  want  no  condescending  saviors. 

To  rule  us  from  a  judgment  hall; 

We  workers  ask  not  for  their  favors; 

Let  us  consult  for  all. 

To  make  the  thief  disgorge  his  booty 
To  free  the  spirit  from  its  cell, 

We  must  ourselves  decide  our  duty. 

We  must  decide  and  do  it  well. 

The  law  oppresses  us  and  tricks  us. 

Wage  systems  drain  our  blood; 

The  rich  are  free  from  obligations, 

The  laws  the  poor  delude. 

Too  long  we’ve  languished  in  subjection. 
Equality  has  other  laws; 

“No  rights,’’  says  she,  “without  their  duties. 
No  claims  on  equals  without  cause.” 

Behold  them  seated  in  their  glory. 

The  kings  »f  mine  and  rail  and  soil? 

What  have  you  read  in  all  their  story. 

But  how  they  plundered  toil? 

(Over.) 


Fruits  of  the  workers’  toil  are  buried 
In  the  strong  coffers  of  a  few; 

In  working  for  their  restitution 
The  men  will  only  ask  their  due. 

Toilers  from  shops  and  fields  united, 

The  union  we  of  all  who  Avork; 

The  earth  belongs  to  us,  the  workers; 

No  room  here  for  the  shirk. 

How  m^any  on  our  flesh  ha^m  fattened! 

But  if  the  noisome  birds  of  prey 
Shall  vanish  from  the  sky  some  morning, 

The  blessed  sunlight  still  will  stay. 

I 

I 

^  THE  BANNER  OF  LABOR. 

■  (T  une:  “Star  Spangled  Banner.”) 

Oh,  say,  can  you  hear,  coming  near  and  more  near 
‘The  call  now  resounding:  “Come  all  ye  who  labor?” 
iThe  Industrial  band,  throughout  the  land 
jBid  toilers  remember  each  toiler’s  his  neighbor. 

':Come,  workers,  unite!  ’tis  Humanity’s  fight. 

,  We  call,  you  come  forth  in  your  manhood  and  might. 

Chorus. 

And  the  BANNER  OF  L,4ROR  will  surely  soon  wave 
O’er  the  land  that  is  free,  from  the  master  and  slave. 
And  the  BANNER  OF  LABOR  will  surely  soon  wave 
O’er  the  land  that  is  free,  from  the  master  and  slave. 

The  blood  and  the  lives  of  children  and  wives 
Are  ground  into  dollars  for  parasites’  pleasure; 

The  children  now  slave,  till  they  sink  in  their  grave — 
That  robbers  may  fatten  and  add  to  their  treasure. 
Will  you  idly  sit  by,  unheeding  their  cry? 

Arise!  Be  ye  men!  See,  the  battle  draws  nigh! 

Long,  long  has  the  spoil  of  labor  and  toil 

Been  wrung  from  the  workers  by  parasite  classes; 

While  Poverty  gaunt.  Desolation  and  Want 

Have  dwelt  in  the  bowels  of  earth’s  toiling  masses. 

Through  bloodshed  and  tears,  our  day  star  appears, 

INDUSTRIAL  UNION,  the  wage  slave  now  cheers. 


8 


should  I  EVER  BE  A  SOLDIER 

(Words  by  J.  Hill.) 

(Tune:.  “Colleen  Bawn/’) 

We’re  spending  billions  every  year 
For  guns  and  ammunition, 

“Our  Army”  and  “our  Navy”  dear, 

To  keep  in  good  condition; 

While  millions  live  in  misery 
And  millions  died  before  us. 

Don’t  sing  “My  Country  ’Tis  of  Thee,” 
But  sing  this  little  chorus. 

Chorus. 

Should  1  ever  be  a  soldier, 

’Neath  the  Red  Flag  I  would  fight; 
Should  the  gun  I  ever  shoulder. 

It’s  to  crush  the  tyrant’s  might. 

.Join  the  army  of  the  toilers. 

Men  and  women  fall  in  line. 

Wage  slaves  of  the  world!  Arouse! 

Do  your  duty  for  the  cause, 

For  Land  and  Liberty. 

And  many  a  maiden,  pure  and  fair. 

Her  love  and  pride  must  offer 
On  Mammon’s  altar  in  despair. 

To  fill  the  master’s  coffer. 

The  gold  that  pays  the  mighty  fleet, 

From  tender  youth  he  squeezes. 

While  brawny  meti  must  walk  the  street 
And  face  the  wintry  breezes. 

Chorus. 

Why  do  they  mount  their  gatling  gun 
A  thousand  miles  from  ocean. 

Where  hostile  fleet  could  never  run— 
Ain’t  that  a  funny  notion? 

If  you  don’t  know  the  reason  whj% 

Just  strike  for  better  wages. 

And  then,  my  friends — if  you  don’t  die — 
You’ll  sing  this  song  for  ages. 


9 


THE  MARSEILLAISE. 


Ye  sons  of  toil,  awake  to  glory! 

Hark,  hark,  what  myriads  bid  you  rise; 

Your  children,  wives  and  grandsires  hoary —  •« 

Behold  their  tears  and  hear  their  cries! 

Behold  their  tears  and  hear  their  cries! 

Shall  hateful  tyrants  mischief  breeding. 

With  hireling  hosts,  a  ruffian  band —  ^ 

Affright  and  desolate  the  land, 

While  peace  and  liberty  lie  bleeding? 


Chorus, 

To  arms!  to  arms!  ye  brave! 

The  avenging  sword  unsheathe! 

March  on,  march  on,  all  hearts  resolved 
On  Victory  or  Death, 


With  luxury  and  Pride  surrounded. 

The  vile,  insatiate  despots  dare. 

Their  thirst  for  gold  and  power  unbounded 
To  mete  and  vend  the  light  and  air. 

To  mete  and  vend  the  light  and  air. 

Like  beasts  of  burden  would  they  load  us. 
Like  gods  would  bid  their  slaves  adore. 
But  Man  is  Man,  and  who  is  more? 

Then  shall  they  longer  lash  and  goad  us? 


O,  Liberty!  can  man  resign  thee? 

Once  having  felt  thy  generous  flame. 
Can  dungeon’s  bolts  and  bars  confine  thee? 
Or  whips,  thy  noble  spirit  tame? 

Or  whips,  thy  noble  spirit  tame? 

Too  long  the  world  has  wept  bewailing. 
That  Falsehood’s  dagger  tyrants  wield. 
But  Freedom  is  our  sword  and  shield; 
And  all  their  arts  are  unavailing! 


10 


HARK!  THE  BATTLECRY  IS  RINGING! 
(Air:  “March  of  the  Men  of  Harlech/’) 

(By  H.  S.  Salt.) 


Hark!  the  l)attle-cry  is  ringing! 
Hope  within  our  hosoms  springing, 
Bids  us  journey  forward,  singing — 
Death  to  tyrants’  might! 

Tho’  we  wield  not  spear  nor  sabre. 
We  the  sturdy  sons  of  Labor, 
Helping  ev’ry  man  his  neighbor. 
Shirk  not  from  the  fight! 

See  our  homes  before  us! 

Wives  and  babies  implore  us; 

So  firm  we  stand  in  heart  and  hand. 
And  swell  the  dauntless  chorus. 


Chorus, 

Men  of  Labor,  young  or  hoary. 
Would  ye  win  a  name  in  story? 
Strike  for  home,  for  life,  for  glory! 
Justice,  Freedom,  Right’ 


Long  in  wrath  and  desperation, 

Long  in  hunger,  shame,  privation. 

Have  we  borne  the  degradation 
Of  the  rich  man’s  spite; 

Now,  disdaining  useless  sorrow. 

Hope  from  brighter  thoughts  we’ll  borrow; 
Often  shines  the  fairest  morrow 
After  stormiest  night. 

Tyrant  hearts,  take  warning. 

Nobler  days  are  dawning; 

Heroic  deeds,  suhlimer  creeds. 

Shall  herald  Freedom’s  morning! 


11 


r 


A  SONG  FOR  THE  WAGE  SLAVE 


Long  in  their  bondage  the  people  have  waited 
Lulled  to  inaction  by  pulpit  and  press; 

Hoping  their  wrongs  would  in  time  he  abated, 
Trusting  ihe  ballot  to  give  them  redress. 
Vainly  they  trusted;  a  high  court’s  decision 
Swept  the  last  bulwark  of  freedom  away; 

The  voice  of  the  people  is  met  with  derision, 
But  a  people  in  action  no  court  will  gainsay. 


Chorus_ 

Then  up  with  the  masses  and  down  with  the  classes, 
Death  to  the  traitor  who)n  money  can  buy. 
Co-operation’s  the  hope  of  the  nation, 

Strike  for  it  now  or  your  liberties  die. 


Hark  to  the  cries  of  the  hungry  and  idle, 

Borne  on  the  breezes  from  prairie  to  sea; 
Patience  their  fury  no  longer  can  bridle, 
Onward  they’re  coming  to  die  or  be  free. 

Hear  and  grow  pale,  ye  despoilers  of  virtue, 
Corporate  managers,  masters  of  slaves. 

Fools,  did  ye  fancy  they  never  could  hurt  you? 
Ye  were  the  cowards  and  they  the  braves. 


Hail  to  the  birth  of  the  new  constitution — 

Laws  that  are  equal  in  justice  to  all. 

Hail  to  the  age  of  man’s  true  evolution. 

Order  unfolding  at  Liberty’s  call. 

Buried  forever  be  selfish  ambition, 

Cruel  fomenter  of  discord  and  strife; 

Long  live  the  commonwealth’s  Hope’s  glad  fruition. 
Humanity  rises  to  news  of  life. 


DON’T  FORGET  to  read  The  Industrial  Worker,  and 
Solidarity. 


12 


WHAT  WE  WANT 


(By  J.  Hill.) 

f  (Tune:  "Rainbow/’) 

We  want  all  the  woi’kers  in  the  world  to  organize 

Into  a  great  big  union  grand 

And  when  we  all  united  stand 

The  world  for  workers  we’ll  demand 

If  the  working  class  could  only  see  and  realize 

What  mighty  power  labor  has 

Then  the  exploiting  master  class 

It  would  soon  fade  away. 

Chorus, 

Come  all  ye  toilers  that  work  for  wages, 

Come  from  every  land, 

Join  the  fighting  band. 

In  one  union  grand, 

Then  for  the  workers  we’ll  make  upon  this  earth  a  paradise 
When  the  slaves  get  wise  and  organize. 

We  want  the  sailor  and  the  tailor  and  the  lumberjacks, 
i»  And  the  cooks  and  laundry  girls. 

We  want  the  guy  that  dives  for  pearls, 

The  pretty  maid  that’s  making  curls. 

And  the  baker  and  staker  and  the  chimneysweep. 

We  want  the  man  that’s  slinging  hash. 

The  child  that  works  for  little  cash 
In  one  mnion  grand. 

Chorus, 

We  want  the  tinner  and  the  skinner  and  the  chamber-maid 
We  want  the  man  that  spikes  on  soles, 

*  We  want  the  man  that’s  digging  holes. 

We  want  the  man  that’s  climbing  poles, 

.\nd  the  trucker  and  the  mucker  and  the  hired  man, 
And  all  the  factory  girls  and  clerks, 

"  Yes,  we  want  every  one  that  works. 

In  one  union  grand. 


Chorus, 

13 


THE  ROLL  CALL 

Up  and  down  the  streets  we  walk  around  until  our  feet 
are  sore, 

For  a  job,  a  job,  a  job  most  anywhere. 

The  employment  shark  will  gather  easy  suckers  by  the 
score. 

When  you  buy  a  j(yij  out  yonder  in  despair. 

Chorus, 

When  you  buy  a  job  out  yon-der, 

W'Tien  you  buy  a  job  out  yon-der. 

When  you  buy  a  job  out  yon-der. 

When  you  buy  a  jol)  out  yon-der  in  despair. 

Shall  we  labor  for  the  grafters,  from  the  dawn  till  setting 
sun? 

Shall  we  all  his  graft  and  hard  work  meekly  bear, 

When  we’ve  worked  a  week  we  owe  the  boss  for  all  the 
work  e’ve  done, 

Whe  nthe  driver  yells,  “Roll  out,  boys,’’  are  you  there? 

Second  Chorus, 

When  the  dri-ver  yells,  roll  out  boys, 

W’hen  the  dri-ver  yells,  roll  out  boys. 

When  the  dri-ver  yells,  roll  out  boys. 

When  the  dri-ver  yells,  roll  out  boys,  are  you  there? 

You’ve  been  robbed  by  the  employment  sharks,  they’ve 
kept  you  on  the  bum. 

If  you  get  the  job  you’ve  bought,  the  case  is  rare. 

Be  a  man  and  join  the  union,  then  the  boss  to  us  must 
come. 

When  the  grafters  have  to  travel,  we’ll  be  there. 

Third  Crorus. 

When  the  graf-ters  have  to  tra-vel. 

When  the  graf-ters  have  to  tra-vel. 

When  the  graf-ters  have  to  tra-vel. 

When  the  grafters  have  to  travel,  we’ll  be  there. 


14 


MY  WANDERING  BOY. 


Where  is  my  wandering  hoy  tonight? 

The  hoy  of  his  mother’s  pride? 

He’s  counting  the  ties  with  his  bed  on  his  back. 

Or  else  he’s  bummin’  a  ride. 

Chorus, 

Oh,  where  is  my  boy  tonight? 

Oh,  where  is  my  boy  tonight? 

He  is  on  the  head-end  of  an  overland  train. 
That’s  where  your  boy  is  tonig’nt. 

His  heart  mmy  be  pure  as  the  morning  dew, 

But  his  clothes  are  a  sight  to  see. 

He’s  pulled  for  a  vag,  his  excuse  won’t  do. 

“Thirty  days,”  says  the  .iudge  you  see. 

Chorus, 

Oh,  where  is  my  boy  tonight? 

Oh,  where  is  my  boy  tonight? 

The  chilly  winds  blows,  to  the  lockup  he  goes. 
That’s  where  your  boy  is  tonight. 

“I  was  looking  for  wsrk,  oh  judge,”  he  said. 

Says  the  judge,  “I  have  heard  that  before.” 

So  to  join  the  chain-gang  off  he’s  led. 

To  hammer  the  rocks  some  more. 

Oh,  where  is  my  boy  tonight? 

Oh,  where  is  my  boy  tonight? 

To  strike  many  blows  for  his  country  he  goes 
That’s  where  your  boy  is  tonight. 


Don’t  search  for  your  boy  tonight. 

Let  him  play  the  old  game  if  he  will. 

A  worker,  a  bum,  he’ll  never  go  right. 

As  long  as  he’s  a  Avage  slave  still. 

Oh,  Avhere  is  my  boy  tonight? 

His  money  is  ought  of  sight. 

Wherever  he  blows,  up  against  it  he  goes, 
“23”  for  your  boy  tonight. 


r 


COFFEE  AND. 

(Composed  by  J.  H.  of  the  I.  W.  W.) 

(Tune:  “Count  Your  Blessings.”) 

An  employment  shark  one  day  I  went  to  see, 

And  he  said,  “Come  in  and  buy  a  job  from  me. 

Just  a  couple  of  dollars  for  the  office  fee. 

But  the  job  is  steady  and  the  fare  is  free.” 

Chorus. 

Count  your  pennies,  count  them,  one  by  one, 

And  you’ll  plainly  see  how  easy  you  are  done. 

Count  your  pennies,  take  them  in  your  hand. 

Sneak  into  a  Jap,  and  get  your  coffee  and. 

I  shipped  out  and  worked  and  worked  and  slept  in  lousy 
bunks, 

And  the  grub  it  stunk  as  bad  as  nineteen  skunks. 

When  a  week  I  slaved  the  boss  he  said  one  day. 

You’re  too  tired,  you  are  fired,  get  your  pay. 

Chorus. 

When  the  clerk  commenced  to  count,  Oh,  holy  gee. 

Road  and  school  and  poll  tax  and  the  hospital  fee] 

But  I  fainted  and  I  nearly  lost  my  sense 
When  yie  clerk  he  said,  “You  owe  me  fifty  cents.” 

Chorus. 

But  when  I  got  back  to  town  with  blistered  feet. 

Then  I  heard  a  fellow  speaking  on  the  street. 

And  he  said,  “It  is  the  workers’  own  mistake. 

If  they  stand  together  they  get' all  they  make.” 

Chorus. 

Come  today,”  he  said,  “and  join  our  union  grand. 

Who  will  be  a  member  of  this  fighting  band?” 

“Write  me  out  a  card,”  says  I,  “Right  here,  by  gee. 

The  Industrial  Workers  is  the  dope  for  me.” 

Chorus. 

Count  the  ^yorkers,  count  them  one  by  one. 

Join  our  union  and  we’ll  show  you  how  it’s  done. 
Stand  together,  workers,  hand  in  hand. 

Then  we’ll  never  have  to  live  on  coffee  and. 


16 


THE  HOPE  OF  THE  AGES. 

(Tune:  “Three  Cheers  for  the  Red,  White  and  Bl 

(By  E.  Nesbit.) 

If  you  dam  up  the  river  of  progress — 

At  your  peril  and  cost  let  it  be; 

That  river  must  seawards  despite  you — 

’Twill  break  down  your  dams  and  be  free; 

And  we  heed  not  the  pitiful  barriers 
That  you  in  its  way  have  downcast; 

For  your  efforts  hut  add  to  the  torrent, 

Whose  flood  must  o’erwhelm  you  at  last. 

Chorus. 

For  our  banner  is  rais’d  and  unfurled; 

At  your  head  our  defiance  is  hurled; 

Our  cry  is  the  cry  of  the  ages — 

Our  hope  is  th®  hope  of  the  world. 

We  laugh  in  the  fawe  of  the  forces 

That  strengthen  the  flood  they  oppose; 

For  the  harder  oppression  the  fiercer 
The  current  will  he  when  it  flows. 

We  shall  win,  and  the  tyrant’s  battalions 
Will  be  scattered  like  chaff  in  the  fight. 

From  which  the  true  Soldiers  of  Freedom 
Shall  gather  new  courage  and  might. 

Chorus. 

Whether  leading  the  van  of  the  fighters. 

In  the  bitterest  stress  of  the  strife; 

Or  patiently  bearing  the  burden 
Of  changelessly  commonplace  life. 

One  hope  we  have  ever  before  us. 

Our  aim  to  attain  and  fulfiM, 

One  watchword  we  cherish  t®  mark  us. 

One  kindred  and  brotherhood  still. 

Chorus. 

What  matter  if  failure  on  failure 
Crowd  closely  upon  us  and  press? 

When  a  hundred  have  bravely  been  beaten 
The  hundred  and  first  wins  success. 

Our  watchword  is  “Freedom”;  new  soldiers 
Flock  each  day  where  her  flag  is  unfurled, 

Our  cry  is  the  cry  of  the  ages, 

Our  hope  is  the  hope  of  the  world. 

^horus, 


DOWN  IN  THE  OLD  DARK  MILL. 

(By  J.  H.  of  the  I.  W.  W.) 

(Air:  "Down  by  the  Old  Mil!  Stream.”) 

How  well  I  do  remember 
That  mill  along  the  way, 

Where  she  and  I  were  working 
For  fifty  cents  a  day. 

She  was  my  little  sweetheart; 

I  met  her  in  the  min¬ 
i’s  a  long  time  sin«e  I  saw  her, 

But  I  love  her  still. 

Chorus. 

Down  in  the  Old  Black  Mill, 

That’s  where  first  we  met. 

Oh!  that  loving  thrill 
I  shall  ne’er  forget; 

And  those  dreamy  eyes. 

Blue  like  summer  skies. 

She  was  fifteen — 

My  pretty  queen — 

In  the  Old  Black  Mill. 

We  had  agreed  to  marry 
When  she’d  be  sweet  sixteen. 

But  then — one  day  I  crushed  it— 

My  arm  in  the  machine. 

I  lost  my  job  forever — 

I  am  a  tramp  disgraced. 

My  sweetheart  still  is  slaving 
In  the  same  old  place. 

Chorus. 

DON’T  FORGET  that  you  have  been  up  against  it  this 
winter.  How  about  next  winter? 

DON’T  FORGET  that  there  is  only  one  working  clasSi. 
There  can  only  be  one  union.  -  ' 


WORKINGMEN,  UNITE! 

(Tune:  “Red  Wing/’ 

(Composed  by  E.  S.  Nelson.) 

Conditions  they  are  bad. 

And  some  of  you  are  sad; 

You  cannot  see  your  enemy, 

The  class  that  lives  in  luxury. 

You  workingmen  are  poor — 

Will  be  forevermore — 

As  long  as  you  permit  the  few 
To  guide  your  destiny. 

Chorus. 

Shall  we  still  be  slaves  and  work  for  wages? 

Tt  is  outrageous — has  been  for  ages; 

This  earth  by  right  belongs  to  toilers, 

And  not  to  spoilers  of  liberty. 

The  master  class  is  small. 

But  they  have  lots  of  “gall.” 

When  we  usite  to  gain  our  right, 

K  they  resist  we’ll  use  our  might ; 

There  is  no  middle  ground. 

This  fight  must  be  one  round 
To  victory,  for  liberty, 

Our  class  is  marching  on! 

Workingmfen,  unite! 

We  must  put  up  a  fight. 

To  make  us  free  from  slavery 
And  capitalistic  tyranny; 

This  fight  is  not  in  vain. 

This  fight  is  not  in  vain. 

We’ve  got  a  world  to  gain. 

Will  you  be  a  fool,  a  capitalist  tool? 

And  serve  your  enemy? 

DON’T  FORGET  that  a  short  work  day,  and  big  paj- 
always  go  together. 


19 


THAT  OLD  RED  BUTTON 
(Tune:  “Put  On  Your  Old  Red  Bonnet.”) 

(Words  Written  by  Richard  Brazier.) 

)h,  it’s  oft  when  1  am  walking,  I  have  heard  the  workers 
talking, 

ibout  the  Industrial  Union  boys. 

md  in  my  travels  all  around,  in  and  out  about  the  town, 
"heir  dope  at  last  has  made  me  wise. 

is  I  listened  to  their  speeches,  in  which  they  showed  up 
all  those  leeches 

Who  suck  the  blood  of  workers  every  day, 
determined  then  to  kick  in,  and  to  give  the  boss  a  lickin’, 
'o  myself  I  then  did  say: 

Chorus. 

,11  wear  that  old  red  button,  the  Industrial  Workers’ 
,1  ^  button, 

jljiid  I’ll  help  them  out  in  the  fray; 

I  'i^hen  the  fight  is  over,  I  shall  be  in  clove'r, 
yhen  we  win  the  eight-hour  day. 

nd  it’s  now  when  I  am  walking,  it’s  me  that  does  the 
talking, 

ince  I  joined  this  Union  Grand, 

nd  I  speak  out  to  the  workers,  to  unite  against  the 
shirkers, 

nd  get  in  the  Industrial  band, 

nd  I  said:  “Let’s  quit  this  piking,  against  our  long  hours 
let’s  be  striking, 
rganize  for  an  eight-hour  day,” 

nd  the  workers  gladly  listened,  and  their  eyes  with  hope 
glistened 

nd  together  they  did  say: 

lorus. 


20 


SCISSOR  BILL. 

(Air:  “Steamboat  Bill.”) 

(By  J.  Hill.) 

You  may  ramble  ’round  the  coutry  anywhere  you  will, 
You’ll  always  run  across  that  same  old  Scissor  Bill. 

He’s  found  upon  the  desert,  he  is  on  the  hill. 

He’s  found  in  every  mining  camp  and  lumber  mill. 

He  looks  just  like  a  human,  he  can  eat  and  walk. 

But  you  will  find  he  isn’t,  when  he  starts  to  talk. 

He’ll  say,  “This  is  my  country,”  with  an  honest  face. 
While  all  the  cops  they  chase  him  out  of  every  place. 

Chorus. 

Scissor  Bill,  he  is  a  little  dippy. 

Scissor  Bill,  he  has  a  funny  face. 

Scissor  Bill  should  drown  in  Mississippi. 

He  is  the  missing  link  that  Darwin  tried  to  trace. 
And  Scissor  Bill  he  couldn’t  live  without  the  booze. 

He  sits  around  all  day  and  spits  tobacco  juice. 

He  takes  a  deck  of  cards  and  tries  to  beat  the  Chink! 

Yes,  Bill  ^vould  be  a  smart  guy  if  only  he  could  think. 

And  Scissor  Bill  he  says:  “This  country  must  be  freed 
From  Niggers,  Japs  and  Dutchmen  and  the  gol  durn  Swede. 
He  says  that  every  cop  would  be  a  native  son 
If  it  wasn’t  for  the  Irishman,  the  sonna  furgun. 

Chorus. 

Scissor  Bill,  the  “foreigners”  is  cussin’. 

Scissor  Bill,  he  says:  “I  hate  a  Coon;” 

Scissor  Bill,  is  down  on  everybody. 

The  Hottentots,  the  bushmen  and  the  man  in  the 
moon. 

Don't  try  to  talk  your  union  dope  to  Scissor  Bill, 

He  says  he  never  organized  and  never  will. 

He  always  will  be  satisfied  until  he’s  dead. 

With  coffee  and  a  doughnut  and  a  lousy  old  bed. 

And  Bill,  he  says  he  gets  rewarded  thousand  fold, 

When  he  gets  up  to  Heaven  on  the  streets  of  gold. 

But  1  don’t  care  who  knows  it,  and  right  here  I’ll  tell. 

If  Scissor  Bill  is  goin’  to  Heaven,  I’ll  go  to  Hell. 

Chorus. 

Scissor  Bill,  he  wouldn’t  join  the  union. 

Scissor  Bill,  he  says,  “Not  me,  by  Heck!” 

Scissor  Bill  gets  his  regard  in  Heaven, 

Oh!  sure,  lie’ll  get  it,  but  he’ll  get  it  in  the  neck. 


21 


r 


MR.  BLOCK 


(Air:  “It  Looks  to  Me  Like  a  Big  Time  Tonight.”) 

(By  J.  Hill.) 

’lease  give  me  your  attention,  I’ll  introduce  to  you 
V  man  that  is  a  credit  to  “Our  Red,  White  and  Blue;’’ 
lis  head  is  made  of  lumber,  and  solid  as  a  rock; 
ie  is  a  common  worker  and  his  name  is  Mr.  Block, 
vnd  Block  he  thinks  he  may 
5e  President  some  day. 

1 

Chorus, 

)h,  Mr.  Block,  you  were  born  by  mistake, 

’  You  take  the  cake. 

You  make  me  ache. 

'ie  on  a  rock  to  your  block  and  then  jump  in  the  lake, 
lindly  do  that  for  liberty’s  sake. 

:'es,  Mr.  Block  is  lucky;  he  found  a  job,  by  gee! 
i'he  sharks  got  seven  dollars,  for  job  and  fare  and  fee. 

;  hey  shipped  him  to  a  desert  and  dumped  him  with  his 
truck, 

.ut  when  he  tried  to  find  his  job,  he  sure  was  out  of  luck, 
'  e  shouted,  “That’s  too  raw, 

:  II  fix  them  with  the  law.” 

'horus. 

lock  hiked  back  to  the  city,  but  wasn’t  doing  well, 
e  said,  “I'll  join  the  union — the  great  A.  F.  of  L.” 
e  got  a  job  next  morning,  got  fired  in  the  night, 
e  said,  “I’ll  see  Sam  Gompers  and  he’ll  fix  that  foreman 
right.” 

,im  Gompers  said,  “You  see 
bu’ve  got  our  sympathy.” 

'norus. 

.ection  day  he  shouted,  “A  Socialist  for  Mayor!” 

'be  “comrade”  got  elected,  he  happy  was  for  fair, 
it  after  the  election  he  got  an  awful  shock, 
great  big  socialistic  Bull  did  rap  him  on  the  block, 
id  Comrade  Block  did  sob, 
helped  him  get  his  job.” 


Chorus. 

The  money  kings  in  Cuba  blew  up  the  gunboat  Maine, 
But  Block  got  awful  angry  and  blamed  it  all  on  Spain. 

He  went  right  in  the  battle  and  there  he  lost  his  leg, 
And  now  he’s  peddling  shoestrings  and  is  walking  on  a  pei 
He  shouts,  “Remember  Maine, 

Hurrah!  To  hell  with  Spain!’’ 

Chorus. 

Poor  Block  he  died  one  evening,  I’m  very  glad  to  state. 
He  climbed  the  golden  ladder  up  to  the  pearly  gate. 

He  said,  “Oh  Mr.  Peter,  one  word  I’d  like  to  tell, 

I’d  like  to  meet  the  Astorbilts  and  John  D.  Rockefell.” 
Old  Pete  said,  “Is  that  so? 

You’ll  meet  them  down  below.” 

Chorus. 

STAND  UP!  YE  WORKERS. 

(By  Ethel  Comer.) 

(Air:  “Stand  Up  for  Jesus.”) 

Stand  up!  Stand  up!  Ye  workers; 

Stand  up  in  all  your  might. 

Unite  beneath  our  banner 
For  Liberty  and  right. 

From  victory  unto  victory 
This  army  sure  will  go. 

To  win  the  world  for  labor 
And  vanquish  every  foe. 

Stand  up!  Stand  up!  Ye  workers; 

Stand  up  in  every  laud. 

Unite,  and  fight  for  freedom 
In  ONE  BIG  UNION  grand. 

Put  on  the  workers’  armor. 

Which  is  the  card  of  Red, 

Then  all  the  greedy  tyrants 
Will  have  to  earn  their  bread. 

Arouse!  Arouse!  Ye  toilers; 

The  strife  will  not  be  long. 

This  day  the  noise  of  battle, 

The  next  the  victor’s  song. 

All  ye  that  slave  for  wages. 

Stand  up  and  break  your  chain , 

Unite  in  ONE  BIG  UNION— 

You’ve  got  a  world  to  gain. 

23 


THEY  ARE  ALL  FIGHTTRS 
(Tune:  “San  Antonio.” 

(Written  by  Richard  Brazier.) 

Tlieer  is  a  bunch  of  honest  workingmen; 

They’re  known  throughout  the  land. 

They’ve  seen  the  horrors  of  the  bull-pen, 

From  Maine  to  the  Rio  Grande. 

They’ve  faced  starvation,  hunger,  privation; 

Upon  them  the  soldiers  were  hurled. 

Their  organization  is  known  to  the  nation 
As  the  Industrial  Workers  of  the  World. 

Then  hail  to  this  fighting  band! 

'  .  Good  luck  to  their  union  grand! 

I 

Chorus_ 

They’re  all  fighters  from  the  word  go, 
ii  And  to  the  master 

f.  They’ll  bring  disaster 

And  if  you’ll  join  them 
I  They’ll  let  you  know 
I  Just  the  reason  the  boss  must  go. 

) 

i  They’ve  faced  the  Pinkertons  and  Gatling  guns 
I  In  defense  of  their  natural  rights; 

1.  They’ve  proved  themselves  to  be  labor  sons 
'  In  all  of  the  workers’  fights; 
i  They  have  been  hounded  by  power  unbounded 
Of  capitalists  throughout  the  land. 

But  all  are  astounded,  our  foes  are  confounded, 
For  we  still  remain  a  union  grand. 

Then  hail  to  this  fighting  band! 

Chorus. 

1  You  live  on  coffee  and  on  doughnuts; 

1  The  Boss  lives  on  porterhouse  steak. 

You  work  ten  hours  a  day  and  live  in  huts; 

[  The  Boss  lives  in  the  palace  you  make. 

You  face  starvation,  hunger,  privation. 

But  the  Boss  is  always  well  fed. 

'  Though  of  low  station  you’ve  built  this  nation — : 
Built  it  upon  your  dead. 

Then  when  will  you  ever  get  wise; 

’VV'hefi  will  you  open  your  eyes? 

S4 


WAGE  WORKERS,  COME  JOIN  THE  UNION 

(Tune:  "Battle  Hymn  of  the  Republic.”) 

We  have  seen  the  reaper  toiling  in  the  heat  of  summer  sun 

VVe  have  seen  his  children  needy  when  the  harvesting  was 
done, 

We  have  seen  a  mighty  army  dying,  helpless,  one  by  one, 

While  their  flag  went  marching  on. 

”  Chorus. 

Wage  workers,  come  join  the  union! 

Wage  workers,  come  join  the  union! 

W^age  workers,  come  join  the  union! 

Industrial  Workers  of  the  World. 

O,  the  army  of  the  ■  wretched,  how  they  swarm  the  citv 
street — 

We  have  -seen  them  in  the  midnight,  where  the  Goths  and 
Vandals  meet; 

,  We  have  shuddered  in  the  darkness  at  the  noises  of  their 
feet, 

But  their  cause  went  marching  on. 

Oui  slavers  marts  are  empty,  human  flesh  no  more  is  sold. 

Where  the  dealer’s  fatal  hammer  wakes  the  clink  of  leap- 
'  ing  gold. 

But  the  slavers  of  the  present  more  relentless  powers  hold, 

Though  the  world  goes  marching  on.  ’ 

But  no  longer  shall  the  children  bend  above  the  whizzing 
wheel, 

W'e  will  free  the  weary  women  from  their  bondage  under 

/  steel; 

In  the  mines  and  in  the  forest  worn  and  helpless  man  shall 
feel 

That  his  cause  is  marching  on. 

Then  lift  you”  eyes,  ye  toilers,  in  the  desert  hot  and  drear, 

» Catch  the  cod  wdnds  from  the  mountains.  Hark!  the 
rivei  s  voice  is  near; 

Soon  we’ll  rest  beside  the  fountain  and  the  dreamland  will 
be  here 

„  As  we  go  marching  on. 


25 


A  DREAM 


r 


(Tune:  “The  Holy  City.”) 

;  (Written  by  Richard  Brazier.) 

i  * 

One  day  as  I  lay  dreaming,  this  Aasion  came  to  mee; 

I  saw  an  army  streaming  singing  of  liberty; 

(  I  marked  these  toilers  passing  by,  I  listened  to  their  cry, 

^  It  was  a  triumphant  anthem — an  anthem  filled  with  joy; 

I  It  was  a  triumphant  anthem — an  anthem  filled  with  joy.  " 

j  Chorus. 

One  union,  industrial  union; 

,  Workers  of  the  world  unite, 

To  make  us  free  from  slavery 
And  gain  each  man  his  right. 

,  I  saw  the  ruling  classes  watching  this  grand  array 
.  Of  marching  toiling  masses  passing  on  their  way; 

With  pallid  cheeks  and  trembling  limbs  they  gazed  upon  s 
j  this  throng. 

And  ever  as  they  marched  along  the  workers  sang  this 
I  song; 

And  ever  as  they  marched  along  the  workers  sang  this  ^ 
I  song: 

I  Chorus. 

]  Methought  I  heard  the  workers  call  to  that  ruling  band — 

^  Come  into  our  ranks,  ye  shirkers,  for  we  now  rule  this  land. 

,  Work  or  starve,  the  workers  said,  for  you  must  earn  your 
bread. 

Then  itno  their  ranks  came  the  masters  and  joined  the 
workers’  song; 

Then  into  their  ranks  came  the  masters  and  joined  the 

workers’  song.  ** 

Mr.  Block  Post  Cards,  two  different  subjects,  50c 
’  per  100.  Order  from  the  “Industrial  Worker,”  P,  0,  ^ 
Box  2129,  Spokane,  Wash. 


STUNG  RIGHT. 

(Words  by  J.  Hill.) 

(Air:  “Sunlight,  Sunlight.” 

When  I  was  hiking  ’round  the  town  to  find  a  job  one  day, 
1  saw  a  sign  that  thousand  men  were  wanted  right  away, 
To  take  a  trip  around  the  world  in  Uncle  Sammy’s  fleet, 
I  signed  my  name  a  dozen  time  upon  a  great  big  sheet. 

Chorus. 

Stung  right,  stung  right,  S-T-U-N-G 

Stung  right,  strung  right,  E.  Z.  Mark,  that’s  me; 

When  my  term  is  over,  and  again  I’m  free. 

There’ll  be  no  more  trips  around  the  world  for  me. 

The  man  he  said,  “The  U.  S.  fleet,  that  is  no  place  for 
slaves. 

The  only  thing  you  have  to  do  is  stand  and  watch  the 
waves.” 

But  in  the  morning,  five  o’clock,  they  woke  me  from  my 
snooze. 

To  scrub  the  deck  and  polish  brass  and  shine  the  captain’s 
shoes. 

One  day  a  dude  in  uniform  to  me  commenced  to  shout, 

I  simply  plugged  him  in  the  jaw  and  knocked  him  down 
and  out; 

They  slammed  me  right  in  irons  then  and  said,  “You  are  a 
case.” 

On  bread  and  water  then  I  lived  for  twenty-seven  days. 

One  day  the  captain  said,  “Today  I’ll  show  you  something 
night, 

All  hands  line  up,  we’ll  go  ashore  and  have  some  exercise.” 
He  made  us  run  for  seven  miles  as  fast  as  we  could  run. 
And  with  a  packing  on  our  back  that  weighed  a  half  a  ton. 

Some  time  ago  when  Uncle  Sam  had  a  war  with  Spain, 
And  many  of  the  boys  in  blue  were  in  the  battle  slain, 

Not  all  were  killed  by  bullets,  though;  no,  not  by  any 
means. 

The  biggest  part  that  died  were  killed  by  Armour’s  Pork 
and  Beans. 


27 


r 

THE  BONE  HEAD  WORKING  MAN. 

VIr.  Slave,  Mr.  Slave,  listen  to  the  call 

the  brave  to  the  brave;  take  the  world  for  all. 

'Tow  you  need  the  light  and  might  to  free  all  homrless 
working  men. 

^^ook  around,  all  around  and  see.  ,» 

dear  the  pound,  hear  the  sound  of  machinery. 

Mow  the  owners  fool  you,  how  they  rule  you. 

^lust  hear  the  bosses  blow. 

Chorus. 

^  Hurry  up!  Hurry  up!  on  my  new  machine.  ** 

Man,  you’re  slow,  boss  is  losing  money. 

'  It  displaces  seventy  men.  If  you  cannot  speed  up 
you’re  fired  then. 

Go  and  look,  go  and  look  for  another  master. 

Good  or  bad  you  sure  will  make  him  wealthy. 

I  It’s  God  darn  hard  to  wake  you  up. 

5  YOU’RE  A  BONEHEAD  WORKING  MAN. 
iMr.  Slave,  Mr.  Slave,  hear  the  union  grand. 

‘  t’s  a  wave,  it’s  a  wave  rolling  through  the  land. 

I.rhis  the  masters  fear  we  are  hear  to  free  our  class  from 
V  slavery.  ' 

'^det  a  book,  get  a  book,  read  the  word  of  light. 

Take  a  look,  take  a  look,  join  the  band  of  might. 

'’ome  and  be  a  wobbly,  then  you’ll  probely 

dot  let  the  bosses  cry  $ 

i 

’  the  old  TOILER’S  MESSAGE. 

(Words  by  ,1.  H.  of  the  I.  W.  W.) 

^  (Air:  “Silver  Threads  Among  the  Gold.” 

’  “Darling  I  am  growing  old” — 

So  the  toiler  told  his  wife — - 
’  Father  Time  the  days  have  tolled 
^  Of  my  useUilness  in  life. 

Just  tonight  my  master  told  me 
^  He  can’t  use  me  any  more. 

Oh,  my  darling,  do  not  scold  me, 

When  the  wolf  comes  to  our  door.”  * 

Chorus. 

To  the  scrap  heap  we  are  going 
When  we’re  overworked  and  old — 

When  ou)-  weary  heads  are  showing  **■ 

Silver  threads  among  the  gold. 


2S 


“Darling,  I  am  growing  old — ” 

He  once  more  his  wife  did  tell — 
“All  my  labor  pow’r  I’ve  sold, 

I  have  nothing  more  to  sell. 
Though  I’m  dying  from  starvation 
I  shall  shout  with  all  might 
To  the  coming  generation. 

I  shall  shout  with  all  my  might — 


WORKING  MEN. 

(Tune,  Genevieve”) 

(By  J.  McCormick) 

Working  man,  oh  can’t  you  see 
That  your  class  lives  in  slavery, 

That  you,  yes,  you,,  and  you  alone 
Can  the  master  overhtrow. 

And  yet  how  hard  it  is  to  see 
You  cringing  at  your  master’s  knee, 

To  beg  that  which  is  yours  by  right 

And  you  could  have  through  your  own  might. 

Chorus. 

Oh  workingmen,  oh  workingmen, 

The  days  may  come  and  the  days  may  go 

But  till  you  organize  to  fight 

The  master  class  won’t  grant  your  right. 

Oh  workingmen,  you  know  we’re  right 
Come  organize  and  use  your  might, 

The  Industrial  Workers  lead  the  way, 

So  come  and  join  our  band  today. 

For  there’s  women  and  children  to  be  freed 
From  this  life  of  slavery; 

The  mills  and  factories  claim  there  toll, 

So  workers  will  you  claim  your  own. 


29 


THE  PREACHER  AND  THE  SLAVE. 

(Tune:  "Sweet  Bye  and  Bye/') 

(By  J.  Hill.) 

Long-haired  preachers  come  out  every  night, 

Try  to  tell  you  what’s  wrong  and  what’s  right; 
But  when  asked  how  ’bout  something  to  eat 
They  will  answer  with  voices  so  sweet: 

Chorus: 

You  will  eat,  bye  and  bye. 

In  that  glorious  land  above  the  sky; 

Work  and  pray,  live  on  hay, 

You’ll  get  pie  in  the  sky  when  you  die. 

And  the  starvation  army  their  play. 

And  they  sing  and  they  clap  and  they  pray 
’Till  they  get  all  our  coin  on  the  drum. 

Then  they’ll  tell  you  when  you’re  on  the  bum; 

Chorus: 

Holy  Rollers  and  jumpers  come  out. 

And  they  holler,  they  jump  and  they  shout. 

"Give  your  money  to  Jesus,’’  they  say, 

“He  will  cure  all  diseases  today.” 

Chorus: 

If  you  fight  hard  for  children  and  wife — 

Try  to  get  something  good  in  this  life — 

You’re  a  sinner  and  bad  man,  they  tell. 

When  you  die  you  Avill  sure  go  to  hell. 

Chorus: 

Workingmen  of  all  countries,  unite. 

Side  by  side  we  for  freedom  will  fight; 

When  the  world  and  its  wealth  we  have  gained 
To  the  grafters  we’ll  sing  this  refrain: 

Chorus: 

You  will  eat,  bye  and  bye. 

When  you’ve  learned  how  to  cook  and  to  fry. 
Chop  some  wood,  ’twill  do  you  good. 

And  you’ll  eat  in  the  sweet  bye  and  bye. 


30 


THERE  IS  POWER  IN  UNION. 

(By  J.  Hill.) 

(Tune,  “There  Is  Power  in  the  Blood/’) 

Would  you  have  freedom  from  wage  slavery, 
Then  join  the  grand  Industrial  band; 

Would  you  from  mis’ry  and  hunger  be  free, 
Then  come!  Do  your  share,  like  a  man. 

Chorus. 

There  is  pow’r,  there  is  pow’r 
In  a  band  of  workingmen, 

When  they  stand  hand  in  hand, 

That’s  a  pow’r,  that’s  a  pow’r 
That  must  rule  in  every  land — 

One  Industrial  Union  Grand. 

Would  you  have  mansions  of  gold  in  the  sky. 
And  live  in  a  shack,  way  in  the  hack? 

Would  you  have  wings  up  in  heaven  to  fly. 

And  starve  here  with  rags  on  your  back? 

Chorus. 

If  you’ve  had  “nuff”  of  “the  blood  of  the  lamb,” 
'Then  join  in  the  grand.  Industrial  band; 

If,  for  a  change,  you  would  have  eggs  and  ham. 
Then  come,  do  your  share,  like  a  man. 

Chorus. 

If  you  like  sluggers  to  beat  off  your  head, 

Then  don’t  organize,  all  unions  despise. 

If  you  want  nothing  before  you  are  dead. 

Shake  hands  with  your  boss  and  look  wise. 

Chorus. 

Come,  all  ye  workers,  from  every  land. 

Come  join  in  the  grand  Industrial  band. 

Then  we  our  share  of  this  earth  shall  demand. 
Come  on!  Do  your  share,  like  a  man, 

Chorus. 


A  PARODY  ON  J.  D, 


(Tune^  “America.") 

(Anonymous.) 

My  country,  ’tis  of  thee, 

My  private  property. 

Of  thee  I  sing. 

Land  where  the  millions  toil 
In  serfdom  on  thy  soil 
That  out  of  “Standard  Oil” 

My  wealth  may  wring. 

My  native  villainy 
Is  what  enables  me 
To  make  my  pile. 

I  have  the  rocks  and  rills. 

Of  oil  my  barrels  fills. 

With  gold  and  bonds  and  bills — 
That’s  why  I  smile. 

Then  there’s  his  son,  John  D., 

A  pious  youth  is  he — 

Takes  after  “Ma," 

And  through  the  needle’s  eye 
With  outstretched  wings  he’ll  fly 
Up  to  a  home  on  high 
Bought  by  “Papa.” 


SONG  OF  THE  “SCISSORBI LL.” 

(Air:  “America.”) 

Ova  tannas  Siam 
Geeva  tanna  Siam 
Ova  tannas 

Sucha  tammas  Siam 
Inocan  giffa  tarn 
Osucha  nas  Siam 
Osucha  nas. 


I 


82 


WALKING  ON  THE  GRASS. 

(Tune:  “The  Wearing  of  the  Green.”) 

In  this  blessed  land  of  freedom  where  King  Mammor 
wears  the  crown 

There  are  many  ways  illegal  now  to  hold  the  people  down 

When  the  dudes  of  state  militia  are  slow  to  come  to  time 

The  law  upholding  Pinkertons  are  gathered  from  the 
slime. 

.  There  are  wisely  framed  injunctions  that  you  must  not 
leave  your  job, 

And  a  peaceable  assemblage  is  declared  to  be  a  mob. 

And  Congress  passed  a  measure  framed  by  some  consum¬ 
mate  ass, 

So  they  are  clubbing  men  and  women  just  for  walking  on 
the  grass. 

In  this  year  of  slow  starvation,  when  a  fellow  looks  fob 
work. 

The  chances  are  a  cop  will  gral)  his  collar  with  a  jerk; 

,  He  will  run  him  in  for  vagrancy,  he  is  branded  as  a 
tramp. 

And  all  the  well-to-do  will  shout:  “It  serves  him  right,  the 
scamp !  ”  j 

So  we  let  the  ruling  class  maintain  the  dignity  of  law,  i 

'  When  the  court  decides  against  us  we  are  filled  with 
wholesome  awe. 

But  we  cannot  stand  the  outrage  without  a  little  sauce 

When  they’re  clubbing  men  and  women  just  for  walking 
on  the  grass. 

The  papers  said  the  union  men  were  all  but  anarchist. 

So  the  job  trust  promised  work  for  all  who  would’t  enlist: 

But  the  next  day  when  the  hungry  horde  surrounded  city 
hall. 

He  hedged  and  said  he  didn’t  promise  anything  at  all. 

So  the  powers  that  be  are  acting  very  queer  to  say  the 
least — 

They  should  go  and  read  their  Bible  and  all  about  Bel¬ 
shazzar’s  feast, 

,  And  when  mene  tekel  at  length  shall  come  to  pass 

They’ll  stop  clubbing  men  and  women  just  for  walking 
on  the  grass. 


33 


IT  IS  THE  UNION. 
(Tune:  “We  Have  a  Navy.”) 
(Written  by  Richard  Brazier.) 


Sing  a  song  in  praise  of  toiling  masses, 

Sing  a  song  about  our  sons  of  toil; 

Sing  of  wrongs  done  to  the  working  classes, 
Wrongs  that  make  our  hearts  boil. 

We  have  always  borne  the  blows  and  lashes 
No  more  we’ll  patient  stand. 

But  on  every  hand,  throughout  this  splendid  land. 
We  sons  of  toil  will  make  our  stand. 

Then  in  our  glory  will  we  tower. 

What  will  be  the  secret  of  our  power? 

Chorus: 

It  is  the  Union,  the  Industrial  Union — 

Our  banner  is  unfurled. 

We  will  unite  in  all  our  splendid  might 
In  the  Industrial  Workers  of  the  World. 

We  have  a  union,  a  fighting  union, 

And  our  masters  know  that,  too. 

It  will  keep  them  in  their  place 
When  they  know  they  have  to  face 
Our  union  of  workingmen  that’s  true. 

For  countless  years  and  ages  we’ve  been  enslaved 
Beneath  the  capitalistic  rule; 

We,  the  strong,  cringing  to  those  men  depraved. 
In  whose  hands  we  have  ever  been  a  tool. 

But  the  day  of  liberty  is  dawning— 

Freedom  now  draws  nigh. 

We  must  unite  to  win  the  fight — 

Wage  slavery  then  will  die. 

Then  in  our  glory  will  we  tower; 

Great  will  i)e  the  workers’  power. 


34 


THE  GIRL  QUESTION. 

(Air:  “Tell  Mother  I'll  Be  There.”) 

(Words  by  J.  H.  of  the  I.  W.  W.) 

A  little  girl  was  working  in  a  big  department  store, 

Her  little  wage  for  food  was  spent;  her  dress  was  ola 
and  tore. 

She  asked  the  foreman  for  a  raise,  so  humbly  and  so  shy. 
And  this  is  what  the  foreman  did  reply: 

Chorus-- 

Why  don’t  you  get  a  beau? 

Some  nice  old  man,  you  know! 

He’ll  give  you  money  if  you  treat  him  right. 

If  he  has  lots  of  gold, 

Don’t  mind  if  he  is  old. 

Go!  Get  some  nice  old  gentleman  tonight. 

The  little  girl  then  went  to  see  the  owner  of  the  store, 
She  told  the  story  that  he’d  heard  so  many  times  before. 
The  owner  cried:  “You  are  discharged!  Oh,  my,  that  big 
disgrace, 

A  ragged  thing  like  you  around  my  place!” 

Chorus — - 

The  little  girl  she  said:  “I  know  a  man  that  can’t  be 
Avrong, 

I’ll  go  and  see  the  preacher  in  the  church  where  I  belong.” 
She  told  him  she  was  doAvn  and  out  and  had  no  place  to 
stay. 

''And  this  is  what  the  holy  man  did  say; 

Chorus — 

Next  day  while  walking  round  she  saw  a  sign  inside  a  hall. 
It  read:  THE  ONE  BIG  UNION  WILL  GIVE  LIBER¬ 
TY  TO  ALL. 

She  said:  I'll  join  that  union,  and  I’ll  surely  do  my  best. 
And  noAV  she’s  gaily  singing  Avith  the  rest: 

Chorus — 

Oh,  W'orkers  do  unite! 

To  crush  the  tyrant’s  might. 

The  ONE  BIG  UNION  BANNER  IS  UNFURLED— 
Come  slaves  from  every  land. 

Come  join  this  fighting  band, 

It’s  named  INDUSTRIAL  W'ORKERS  OF  THE 
WORLD. 


35 


THE  WHITE  SLAVE. 


(By  J.  Hill.) 

(Air,  “Meet  Me  Tonight  in  Dreamland.”) 

One  little  girl,  fair  as  a  pearl. 

Worked  every  day  in  a  laundry; 

All  that  she  made  for  food  she  paid, 

So  she  slept  on  a  park  bench  so  soundly; 

An  old  procuress  spied  her  there, 

She  came 'and  whispered  in  her  ear: 

Chorus. 

Come  with  me  now  my  girly, 

DonT  sleep  out  in  the  cold; 

Your  face  and  tresses  curly 
Will  bring  you  fame  and  gold, 

Automobiles  to  ride  in,  diamonds  and  silk  to  wear. 
You’ll  be  a  star  bright,  down  in  the  red  light. 

You’ll  make  your  fortune  there. 

Same  little  girl,  no  more  a  pearl, 

Walks  all  alone  ’long  the  river. 

Five  years  have  flown,  her  health  is  gone. 

She  would  look  at  the  water  and  shiver. 

Whene’er  she’d  stop  to  rest  and  sleep. 

She’d  hear  a  voice  call  from  the  deep: 

Chorus. 

Girls  in  this  way,  fall  every  day. 

And  have  been  falling  for  ages, 

Wlio  is  to  blame?  you  know  his  name. 

It’s  the  boss  that  pays  starvation  wages. 

A  homeless  girl  can  always  hear 
Temptations  calling  everywhere. 


EVERYBODY’S  JOINING  IT. 

(Words  by  J.  Hill.) 

(Air:  “Everybody’s  Doin’  It.’’) 

Fellow  workers,  can’t  you  hear, 

There  is  something  in  the  air. 

Everywhere  you  walk,  everybody  talk 
’Bout  the  I.  W.  W'. 

They  have  got  a  way  to  strike 
'  That  the  master  doesn’t  like — 

Everybody  stick.  That’s  the  only  trick, 

All  are  joining  it  now. 

Chorus. 

Everybody’s  joining  it!  Joining  what?  Joining  it 
Everybody’s  joining  it!  Joining  what?  Joining  it 
One  Big  Union,  that’s  the  workers’  choice. 

One  Big  Union;  that’s  the  only  noise, 

One  Big  Union;  shout  with  all  your  voice; 

Make  a  noise,  make  a  noise,  make  a  noise,  boys, 
Everyljody’s  joining  it!  Joining  w'hat?  Joining  it 
>  Everybody’s  joining  it!  Joining  what?  Joining  it 

Joining  in  this  union  grand. 

Boys  and  girls  in  every  land;  ' 

All  the  workers  hand  in  hand— 

^  Everybody’s  joining  it  now. 

Th’  Boss  is  feeling  mighty  bine, 

He  don’t  know  just  what  to  do. 

We  have  got  his  goat,  got  him  by  the  throat, 

Soon  he’ll  work  or  go  starving. 

Join  1.  W.  W., 

Don’t  let  bosses  trouble  you. 

Come  and  join  with  us — everybody  does — 

You’ve  got  nothing  to  lose. 

Will  the  One  Big  Union  grow? 
k  Mister  Bonehead  wants  to  know. 

Well!  What  do  you  think,  of  that  funny  gink 
Asking  such  foolish  questions? 

Will  it  grow?  Well!  Look  a  here, 

•  Brand  new  locals  everyw'here,  ' 

Better  take  a  hunch.,  join  the  fighting  bunch. 

Fight  for  Freedom  and  Right. 


37 


yr... 


WE  ARE  THE  ONLY  UNION. 

(Sing  to  the  tune  of  “Tommy  Aitkens.) 

We’ll  take  them  from  the  city  and  the  plough,  ^ 

From  factory,  mine  or  steamship  or  from  scow. 

Where  ever  workers  be  who  are  striving  to  be  free 
We  will  organize  them  in  one  union  grand; 

Our  mission  is  to  free  the  working  slave 

Who  toils  away  to  an  early  grave 

From  a  life  of  want  and  woe  Liberty  we’ll  show 

If  they’ll  join  the  Industrial  Workers  of  the  World. 

Chorus. 

If  they’ll  join  the  Industrial  Workers 
And  get  in  and  do  their  share 

In  the  battle  which  we’re  Avaging  for  the  workers  every- 
t  where; 

If  they’ll  organize  Industrially  into  one  big  union  grand 
The  workers  will  be  victors  and  the  rulers  of  this  land. 

1 

j  We  aim  to  make  the  masters  bend  the  knee 
^  To  a  working  class  once  organized  and  free 
j  Who  will  break  the  master’s  rule  and  no  longer  be  the  tool  « 
Of  a  cruel,  scheming  Capitalistic  class 
To  wake  the  workers  from  their  reverie 
And  set  them  on  the  path  to  liberty 
To  get  all  we  produce  work  not  for  profit  but  for  use 
That’s  the  mission  of  this  one  big  union  grand. 

Chorus. 

Oh  we  are  the  only  union  that  will  ever  cure  the  ills 
Of  the  women  in  the  sweat-shops  and  the  children  in  the 
mills; 

We  will  help  our  felloAV  workers  who  are  hungry  and  out 
of  work; 

We  will  do  away  with  grafters  and  the  Idle  class  who 
shirks. 


38 


WE  WILL  SING  ONE  SONG. 

(Words  by  J.  Kill.) 

Air,  “My  Old  Kentucky  Home.”) 

We  will  sing  one  song  of  the  meek  a,nd  humble  slave, 

The  horn-handed  son  of  the  toil. 

He’s  toiling  hard  from  the  cradle  to  the  grave. 

But  his  master  reaps  the  profits  from  his  toil. 

Then  we’ll  sing  one  song  of  the  greedy  master  class. 
They’re  vagrants  in  broadcloth,  indeed. 

They  live  by  robbing  the  ever-toiling  mass. 

Human  blood  they  spill  to  satisfy  their  greed. 

Chorus. 

Organize!  Oh,  toilers,  come  organize  your  might; 

Then  we’ll  sing  one  song  of  the  workers’  commonwealth. 

Full  of  beauty,  full  of  love  and  health. 

We  will  sing  one  song  of  the  politician  sly, 

He’s  talking  of  changing  the  laws; 

Election  day  all  the  drinks  and  smokes  he’ll  buy. 

While  he’s  living  from  the  sweat  of  your  brow. 

Then  we’ll  sing  one  song  of  the  girl  below  the  line. 

She’s  scorned  and  despised  everywhere. 

While  in  their  mansions  the  “keepers”  wine  and  dine 
From  the  profit  that  immortal  traffic  bear. 

Chorus. 

We  will  sing  one  song  of  the  preacher,  fat  and  sleek. 

He  tells  you  of  homes  in  the  sky. 

He  says,  “Be  generous,  be  lowly,  and  be  meek, 

If  you  don’t  you’ll  sure  get  roasted  when  you  die. 

Then  we’ll  sing  one  song  of  the  poor  and  ragged  tramp. 
He  carries  his  home  on  his  back; 

Too  old  to  work,  he’s  not  wanted  ’round  the  camp. 

So  he  wanders  without  aim  along  the  track. 

Chorus. 

We  will  sing  one  song  of  the  children’s  in  the  mills. 
They’re  taken  from  playgrounds  and  schools. 

In  tender  years  made  to  go  the  pace  that  kills. 

In  the  sweatshops,  ’mong  the  looms  and  the  spools. 

Then  we’ll  sing  one  song  of  the  One  Big  Union  Grand, 
The  hope  of  the  toiler  and  slave. 

It’s  coming  fast;  it  is  sweeping  sea  and  land, 

To  the  terror  of  the  grafter  and  the  knave. 

Chorus. 


WORKERS  OF  THE  WORLD,  UNITE. 

(Tune:  “Love  Me  and  the  World  Is  Mine.”) 
(By  Walquist) 

I  wander  up  and  down  the  street, 

Till  I  have  blisters  on  my  feet. 

My  belly’s  empty.  I’ve  no  bed, 

No  place  to  rest  my  weary  head. 

There’s  millions  like  me  wandering. 

Who  are  deeply  pondering. 

Oh,  what  must  we  do  to  live? 

Shall  the  workers  face  starvation,  mis’ry,  and 
privation, 

In  a  land  so  rich  and  fair? 

Chorus. 

Unite,  my  Fellow  Man,  unite! 

Take  back  your  freedom  and  your  right. 

You  have  nothing  to  lose  now. 

Workers  of  the  World,  unite. 

Oh!  workingmen,  come  organize. 

Oh!  when,  oh!  when  will  you  get  wise? 

Are  you  still  going  to  be  a  fool. 

And  let  the  rich  man  o’er  you  rule? 

It  is  time  that  you  were  waking. 

See  the  dawn  is  breaking, 

Come  now,  wake  up  from  your  dream. 

All  this  wealth  belongs  to  toilers. 

And  not  to  the  spoilers. 

Wage  slaves,  throw  your  chains  away. 

Chorus. 

Unite,  my  Fellow  Man,  unite! 

And  crush  the  greedy  tyrant’s  might. 

The  earth  belongs  to  Labor, 

\Vorkers  of  the  World  Unite. 


SHIP  OUT. 

(Tune:  “School  Days.”) 

(By  Walquist.) 

Nothing  to  do,  sucker  darling, 

Nothing  to  do  today, 

Come  take  a  trip  to  Oregon, 

Fat  shark  will  ship  you  there, 

Erickson  and  Peterson  are  wanting  men 
To  come  and  work  for  them. 

So,  if  you  Avill  go,  we’ll  give  you  a  shoAV — 
Two  dollars  you’ll  have  to  pay. 


Chorus. 

Ship  out,  ship  out, 

Ship  out  to  a  mmster; 

They  give  you  a  poor  wage 
And  feed  you  on  peas. 

The  bunks  they  are  plumb  full 
Of  crums  and  fleas. 

No  wonder  a  worker  becomes  a  “Bo” — 

And  out  in  the  jungles  he’ll  sleep,  you  know. 

You  knock  on  back  doors  till  your  knuckles  are  sore — 
Whenever  you  ship  to  a  job. 

Don’t  you  remember  the  driver. 

Who  worked  you  so  hard,  you  know? 

He’ll  make  you  work  fast  as  long  as  you  last, 

And  then  you.  will  have  to  go. 

Hike  along  the  railroad. 

With  your  blankets  upon  your  back. 

So  come  and  get  wise — 

Come  now,  organize,  and  never  ship  out  any  more. 

Chorus, 

THE  “BLANKET  STIFF.” 

He  built  the  road. 

With  others  of  his  class  he  built  the  road. 

Now  o’er  it,  many  a  weary  mile,  he  packs  his  load, 
Chasing  a  job,  spurred  on  by  hunger’s  goad, 

He  walks  and  walks  and  walks  and  walks 
And  wonders  why  in  Hell  he  built  the  road. 


OUT  IN  THE  BREAD-LINE. 

Out  in  the  bread-line,  the  fool  and  the  knave, 

Out  in  the  bread-line  the  sucker  and  slave. 

Coffee  and  doughnuts  now  takes  all  our  cash. 

We’re  on  the  bum  and  we’re  glad  to  get  hash. 

Chorus. 

Out  in  the  bread-line,  in  rain  or  sunshine. 

We’re  up  against  it  today, 

Out  in  the  bread-line,  watching  the  job-sign. 
We’re  on  the  bum,  boys,  today. 

The  employment  office  now  ships  east  and  west. 
Jobs  are  quite  scarce — they  are  none  of  the  best; 
Grub  it  is  rocky — a  discount  we  pay. 

We  are  dead  broke,  and  we’ll  have  to  eat  hay. 

Chorus. 

We  are  the  big  bums,  the  hoboes  and  “vags,” 

O,  we  look  hungry,  our  clothes  are  all  rags. 

While  a  fat  grafter,  sky-pilot  or  fake. 

Laughs  at  our  trouloles  and  gives  us  the  shake. 

Chorus. 

O,  yes,  we’re  the  suckers,  there’s  no  doubt  of  that, 
We  live  like  dogs,  and  the  boss  he  gets  fat, 

God  help  his  picture,  when  once  we  get  wise. 

He’ll  be  the  hum  and  we’ll  be  the  swell  guys. 


“SOLIDARITY.” 

A  weekly  revolutionary  working  class  paper,  published 
by  the  Local  Unions  of  New  Castle.  Pa. 

Subscription;  Yearly,  $1.00;  six  months,  50  cents;  Can¬ 
ada  and  foreign,  $1.50;  bundle  orders,  per  copy,  l%c. 

Address  all  communications  for  publication  to  B. 
Williams,  editor.^  all  remittances  to  the  manager,  C. 
McCarty. 

Address:  P..  O.  Box  622,  New  Castle,  Pa. 


WHERE  THE  FRASER  RIVER  FLOWS. 


(Tune:  '‘Where  the  River  Shannon  Flows.”) 

Fellow  worker.g  pay  attention  to  what  I’m  going  to  men 
tion, 

For  it  is  the  fixed  intention  of  the  Workers  of  the  World. 

And  I  hope  you’ll  all  he  ready,  true-hearted,  brave  and 
steady. 

To  gather  ’round  our  standard  when  the  Red  Flag  is 
unfurled. 

Chorus. 

Where  the  Fraser  River  flows,  each  fellow  worker  knows, 

They  have  bullied  and  oppressed  us,  but  still  our  Union 
grows. 

And  we’re  going  to  find  a  way,  boys,  for  shorter  hours  and 
better  pay,  boys; 

And  we’re  going  to  win  the  day,  boys;  where  the  river 
Fraser  fiows. 

For  these  gunny-sack  contractors  have  all  been  dirty 
actors. 

And  they’re  not  our  benefactors,  each  fellow  worker 
knows. 

So  we’ve  got  to  stick  together  in  fine  or  dirty  weather. 

And  we  will  show  no  white  feather,  where  the  Fraser 
River  fiows. 

Now  the  boss  the  law  is  stretching,  bulls  and  pimps  he’s 
fetching. 

And  they  are  a  fine  collection,  as  Jesus  only  knows. 

But  why  their  mothers  reared  them,  and  why  the  devi, 
spared  them, 

Are  questions  we  can't  ariswer,  where  the  Fraser  Rive: 
flows. 

Read  “The  Industrial  Worker”  and  Solidarity,  each  ? 

cents  a  copy';  $1  per  year.  Both,  1  year,  $1.50. 

“Why  should  one  man's  belly  be  empty  when  ten  mer 

can  produce  enough  to  feed  a  hundred?” 


1.1 


i 


'‘MIGHT  IS  RIGHT.” 

(By  Covington  Hall.) 

Might  was  Right  when  Christ  was  hanged 
Beside  the  Jordan’s  foam; 

Might  was  Right  when  Gracchus  bled. 

Upon  the  stones  of  Rome;  * 

And  Might  was  Right  when  Danton  fell, 

When  Emmet  passed  away — 

“  ’Tis  the  logic  of  the  Ancient  World, 

And  the  oGspel  of  today.” 

Might  was  Right  when  Spartacus 
Went  down  in  seas  of  blood. 

And  when  the  Commune  perished 
In  the  selfsame  crimson  flood; 

And  Might  was  Right  at  Cripple  Creek, 

At  Tampa,  Homestead — yea! 

”  ’Tis  the  logic  of  the  Ancient  World, 

And  the  Gospel  of  today.” 

Might  was  Right  when  Parsons  died,  < 

AVhen  Ferrer  followed  him, 

When  Chinn’s  young  life  was  beaten  out 
In  Spokane’s  dungeon  grim; 

And  Might  was  Right  when  Pettibone 

Went  staggering  down  death’s  way —  * 

”  ’Tis  the  logic  of  the  Ancient  World, 

And  the  Gospel  of  today.” 

Might  is  Right  when  Morgan  builds 
A  hell  ’round  every  hearth; 

Might  is  Right  when  Kirby  starves 
His  peons  off  the  earth; 

And  Might  was  Right  when  Deitz  became 
Wolf  AA^eyerhauesr’s  prey — 

“  ’Tis  the  logic  of  the  Ancient  World, 

And  the  Gospel  of  today.”  m 

Might  is  Right  when  children  die 
By  thousands  in  the  mills,  . 

When  leAveled  hands  reach  down  and  take  ^ 

The  gold  their  blood  distills; 


44 


And  Might  is  Right  when  maidens  give 
Their  love-dreams  up  for  pay — 

“  ’Tis  the  logic  of  the  Ancient  World, 

And  the  Gospel  of  today.” 

Might  was,  it  is,  it  e’er  will  be. 

The  One  and  Only  Right; 

And  so,  O  hosts  of  Toil,  awaken! 

O  workingmen,  unite! 

Unite!  Unite!  For  Might  is  Right, 

’Tis  Freedom’s  only  way — 

“  ’Tis  the  logic  of  the  Ancient  World, 

And  the  Gospel  of  today.” 

UNITE!  UNITE! 

(Tune;  How  Can  !  Bear  to  Leave  Thee.”) 
(Written  by  Thos.  Borland.) 

Oh,  workingmen,  do  organize 
For  freedom  and  for  liberty! 

Cut  loose  the  bands  that  bind  you  fast; 

Unite  or  death  will  be  your  last. 

Refrain, 

Unite,  unite,  to  win  your  fight; 

Onward,  onward,  to  liberty. 

The  Industrial  Workers  of  the  World 
Are  putting  up  a  manly  fight. 

To  give  the  working  class  their  rights 
And  overthrow  the  parasites. 

Chorus. 

Hail  to  our  noble  martyrs  true, 

Who  hoisted  the  emblem  for  me  and  you. 

Some  they  bled  and  others  died. 

Their  lives  did  they  not  sacrifice? 

(Note — Thomas  Borland  died  as  the  result  of  the  treat¬ 
ment  received  in  prison  in  the  Franklin  School,  Spokane, 
Wash.,  in  the  “free  speech”  fight.) 


the  tramp. 

(By  J.  Hill.) 

Tune:  “Tramp,  Tramp,  Tramp,  the  Boys  Are  Marching.”) 
If  you  all  will  shut  your  trap, 

I  will  tell  you  ’bout  a  chap, 

That  was  broke  and  up  against  it,  too,  for  fair; 

He  was  not  the  kind  that  shirk. 

He  Avas  looking  hard  for  work. 

But  he  heard  the  same  old  story  everywhere. 

Chorus. 

Tramp,  tramp,  tramp,  keep  on  a-tramping. 

Nothing  doing  here  for  you; 

If  I  catch  you  ’round  again. 

You  will  wear  the  ball  and  chain. 

Keep  on  tramping,  that’s  the  best  thing  you  can  do. 

He  walked  up  and  down  the  street, 

’Till  the  shoes  fell  off  his  feet; 

In  a  house  he  spied  a  lady  cooking  stew. 

And  he  said,  “How  do  you  do. 

May  I  chop  some  wood  for  you?” 

What  the  lady  told  him  made  him  feel  so  blue. 

Chorus. 

’Cross  the  street  a  sign  he  read, 

“Work  for  Jesus,”  so  it  said, 

And  he  said,  “Here  is  my  chance.  I’ll  surely  try,” 

And  he  kneeled  upon  the  floor, 

’Till  his  knees  got  rather  sore, 

But  at  eating-time  he  heard  the  preacher  cry — 

Chorus. 

Down  the  street  he  met  a  cop. 

And  the  Copper  made  him  stop. 

And  he  asked  him,  “When  did  you  blow  into  town? 
Come  w'ith  me  up  to  the  judge.” 

But  the  judge  he  said,  “Oh  fudge. 

Bums  that  have  no  money  needn’t  come  around.” 

Chorus. 

Finally  came  that  happy  day 
When  his  life  did  pass  away. 

He  was  sure  he’d  go  to  heaven  when  he  died. 

When  he  reached  the  pearly  gate, 

Santa  Peter,  mean  old  skate. 

Slammed  the  gate  right  in  his  face  and  loudly  cried; 

Chorus. 


COME  AND  GET  WISE. 

(Tune:  “The  Anheuser-Busch.”) 

(Written  by  Richard  Brazier.) 

* 

Talk  about  the  swell  wa,y  the  workers  don’t  live, 
And  the  fine  wages  our  masters  don’t  give; 

Rave  about  the  good  cream  that’s  up  high  above 
If  we’ll  work  for  nothing  and  the  boss  we’ll  love; 
Speak  about  the  bread  lines  and  soup  houses,  too, 
Who  sometimes  feed  workers  when  no  job’s  in  view; 
But,  workingman,  really  the  power’s  in  your  hand 
To  change  these  conditions  and  rule  this  fair  land. 

Chorus. 

Come,  come,  come,  and  get  wise 

To  the  boss  who  is  now  robbing  you. 

Come,  come,  come,  hear  what  we  say 
To  workingmen,  honest  and  true. 

We’re  the  only  union,  and  that  is  no  lie; 

You  can  join  us  without  fear. 

Come,  come,  come  and  put  the  grafter 
Dead  on  the  hog  right  here. 

* 

Talk  about  the  mansions  where  we  don’t  reside. 

And  the  splendid  Pullmans  in  which  we  don’t  ride; 

^  Speak  about  the  good  clothes  we  never  wear. 

The  jewels  and  luxuries  our  masters  don’t  share; 
Talk  about  the  swell  dumps  where  our  masters  dine 
Their  friends,  their  lackeys  and  ladies  so  fine; 

But  if  you  need  these  things  one  thing  you  must  do — 
All  come  together  in  one  union  true. 

Talk  about  our  friend,  the  em.ployment  shark. 

Who  robs  the  poor  workingman  daylight  and  dark, 

'  And  those  fat  policemen  who  batter  our  head 
If  we  go  on  strike  for  a  few  crumbs  of  bread; 

And  those  fat  preachers,  so  sleek  and  Avell  fed. 

Who  say  we’ll  be  happy  after  we’re  dead; 

»  But  if  you’ll  unite  in  the  Industrial  Band 

You  can  drive  all  these  grafters  out  of  this  land. 


47 


i 


1 


HOLD  THE  FORT. 

We  meet  today  in  Freedom’s  cause. 

And  raise  our  voices  high. 

We’ll  join  our  hands  in  union  strong,  »■ 

To  battle  or  to  die. 

Chorus 

Hold  the  fort  for  we  are  coming. 

Union  men  be  strong. 

Side  by  side  we  battle  onward 

Victory  will  come. 

Look  my  Comrades,  see  the  union 
Banners  waving  high. 

Reinforcements  now  appearing. 

Victory  is  nigh.  ' 

See  our  numbers  still  increasing; 

Hear  the  bugle  blow. 

'  ik 

By  our  union  we  shall  triumph 
Over  every  foe. 

Fierce  and  long  the  battle  rages, 

But  we  will  not  fear. 

Help  will  come  whene’er  it’s  needed, 

Cheer  my  comrades  cheer. 


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